


Blood-red Flower

by yeoman014



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Barduil Secret Santa, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 15:55:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9190439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeoman014/pseuds/yeoman014
Summary: Bard dreamed.He was in Laketown, staring into the eyes of the dragon, bottomless pools drawing him ever deeper in as the sibilant voice hissed in his ears and wormed its way into his brain.And then he was drowning.  The wintry lake was boiling hot and he was burning inside and out as he choked on the roiling waters.All of a sudden, the water was blood.  Thick, metallic, and just as hot, he was still drowning.  But as he gasped and swallowed, blood sliding down his nose and throat, he no longer felt as though he were suffocating.  Instead he drank and drank and drank and drank…





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [captainronnie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainronnie/gifts).



> Because I suck at naming my works, the title is from a quote which I googled to find: "Perhaps the old monks were right when they tried to root love out; perhaps the poets are right when they try to water it. It is a blood-red flower, with the color of sin; but there is always the scent of a god about it." ~Olive Schreiner

Bard could be forgiven, perhaps, for not noticing the symptoms at first – or at least for not recognizing them for what they were.

If he didn’t feel the cold that winter, well, the Elvenking had provided his family with finer clothes and blankets than they’d had in some time.  And there was plenty of work to be done to keep warm, making Dale habitable again.

If food turned to ash in his mouth, regardless of its quality, well that was clearly an effect of the grief.  They’d lost so many in such a short time, with the dragon’s attack on Laketown and then the defense of Dale.  Of course it felt wrong to enjoy the taste of food when so many were no longer around to share it with them.

If he was able to work longer and harder without tiring, if his strength only ever seemed to increase, well that was because he was eating better and staying warm – and because he held the responsibility on his shoulders for his entire people now.  Determination to fulfill his duties well (however reluctantly he’d initially taken them on) was a great motivator, and he was determined to be a king among his people, sharing their load, not bound to or hiding behind a desk.

 

Bard dreamed.

He was in Laketown, staring into the eyes of the dragon, bottomless pools drawing him ever deeper in as the sibilant voice hissed in his ears and wormed its way into his brain.

And then he was drowning.  The wintry lake was boiling hot and he was burning inside and out as he choked on the roiling waters.

All of a sudden, the water was blood.  Thick, metallic, and just as hot, he was still drowning.  But as he gasped and swallowed, blood sliding down his nose and throat, he no longer felt as though he were suffocating.  Instead he drank and drank and drank and drank…

 

Although Thranduil retired to his own kingdom not long after the battle, he routinely sent Elves into Dale with supplies for the Men and letters for Bard, who was grateful to receive them both.  As snow covered the earth and travel between the two kingdoms slowed, Bard learned to use the birds to send messages to Thranduil, though that correspondence was infrequent and of an official nature only.

Bard continued to prefer the written word.  If anyone had asked, he might’ve said that he was a practical, down-to-earth Man, and speaking to birds – and having them speak to him in return – was still a bit much for him.  More accurately, he preferred being able to re-read the Elvenking’s letters to him whenever he wished, enjoyed tracing the beautiful lines of script with his (admiring) eyes.  Enjoyed repeating their words to himself, especially as the two of them grew closer and their friendship deepened with continued correspondence.

And in Bard’s dreams, he drank and drank and drank…

 

Things continued well enough until spring.

As the weather warmed, Bard was beginning to be worried.  He began to believe that food literally was becoming ash in his mouth, not that it simply tasted that way.  Which, as he thought of it, cast a strange and disturbing light on his strength and endurance over the winter, if he wasn’t actually taking in any sustenance.

He began to refuse food, unable to choke it down any longer.  If he was at home, he set out meals for his children, saying he’d already eaten or wasn’t hungry.  During the day, he gave away the lunches that they’d packed for him.

At night in his dreams, he drank and drank…

He began to sleep for longer and longer as his strength faded and fatigue grew in him.  He missed the taste of food and sought refuge in his dreams, where at least he could enjoy the sweet taste of _something_.  More and more often, his children would come home to find him already deeply asleep; they were always unable to rouse him.

Finally, the hunger – the _thirst_ – that Bard had been eagerly slaking in his sleep followed him into the waking world.

 

It was early spring – one of those days where the sun shone brightly and the world looked as if it should be warm, but the air was still cool and the sharp-edged breeze had folks drawing coats and shawls tighter about their shoulders.

Bard awoke with a headache, a relentless throbbing at his temples, as sounds and smells and even sunlight seemed to assault him.  Every sense seemed to be working overtime, even his soft, Elf-made blankets painful on his skin, and the odor of the egg and cheese omelettes Sigrid had going made his stomach turn.  Even the barest sliver of sunlight through the shutters – normally so welcomed after the unrelenting grey gloom of winter – stabbed at his eyes. Each creak of the wooden floorboards had him wincing in pain, the sweet birdsong turned shrill and piercing in his ears, and Bard imagined he could even hear the earthworms squirming about in the dirt outside their home.

 _Migraine or no_ , Bard thought ruefully, _work waits for no man, King or otherwise_.

He ignored the sharp pang in his gut; there was a gnawing, hungering emptiness in him that he didn’t know how to fill.

 

They were still working on shoring up, restoring, or rebuilding the old stone structures in Dale, and accidents were common.  Bard never knew exactly what happened that morning.  But all of a sudden, he smelled it – that sweet-metallic tang of blood, of which he drank so deeply in his dreams, overwhelming all other scents.  Bard, who was so _hungry_ but no longer found food appetizing, began to salivate, thickly, and his stomach began to gurgle in anticipation.  He could feel coherent thought slipping away…

Bard thought he mumbled something about feeling sick but couldn’t be sure as he _fled_ , his only goal to get as far away as possible while he still knew to resist the temptation of that smell.

He knew not the passage of time; it felt like an eternity of hunger but perhaps it was not before he again came upon that delicious smell, slightly different but still _blood_ , and this time Bard sank his teeth into meaty flesh and _drank_.

 

Thranduil made no excuses to himself as to why he was where he was at that very moment.  True, he did enjoy any time he could steal to himself.  And true, he loved watching his forest become verdant and flush with new life every spring, no matter how many centuries passed.  But that he should wander so close to Dale in his appreciation?  That was a new thing, and done largely on the off chance that he might happen across Bard.

He did not expect to meet Bard; although the Man had been one of the few brave enough to venture into “Mirkwood” in the past, to hunt down food for his family, other duties probably kept him much busier now.  Despite Thranduil’s hopes, therefore, he was still somewhat surprised to chance upon him, and greeted Bard happily.

At the sound of his voice, Bard – who had been seated on the ground, looking the opposite direction – jumped up and whirled to face him.  “Stay back!” he flung up an outstretched hand warning and took a step away himself, revealing the mangled deer carcass behind him.

Thranduil took in everything.  Bard’s clothing was shredded, as if he'd torn through the forest without any regard for its numerous branches and thorns.  He was smeared in blood; his hands were red with it, it was caked under his fingernails and congealed on his chin.  His eyes were wide with panic and his nostrils flared wildly.

“Oh, Bard,” Thranduil sighed, “I should’ve known.  Why didn’t you tell me?”

But Bard was in no state to converse, clearly.  “Stay back,” he repeated, though he remained where he was as Thranduil advanced, eyes fixed on the Elvenking’s beautifully pale throat.

“Here,” Thranduil offered, rolling up his sleeve to expose an elegant wrist.  “Drink.”

There was no conflict in Bard’s eyes as he sank his teeth into Thranduil, still thirsty enough to give in without much hesitation, for which Thranduil was grateful.  He didn’t want Bard feeling guilt or horror over something which he clearly needed and was freely offered.

 

Bard awoke slowly, comfortably.  The kind of awaking that happens only when you are healthy and well-rested and _safe_.  He was stretched out on mossy ground, head pillowed on the softest material he’d ever known.  A light, sweet taste lingered on his tongue, and his belly felt full and warm.  His face was cool and refreshed, as if newly washed, and someone _was_ washing his hands, gently but firmly wiping at them with a wet cloth.

Thranduil was singing softly over him. Bard had never heard the Elvenking sing before, but something in him recognized the voice immediately.  He wondered how they had come to be there, relaxing together in the forest.  It was like a dream.  A _true_ dream, not whatever had been in his sleep over the winter.  Maybe things were changing with the seasons.

“Hello,” he greeted softly as he opened his eyes.

The singing and washing paused, and Thranduil’s eyes met Bard’s with a soft smile.  “How do you feel?”

Bard smiled in answer.  “Better than I have in awhile,” he said with mild surprise.  “What are you-”  He brought his hands into view to see why Thranduil was washing them, and knowledge of what he’d done came rushing back at the sight of the red blood staining them; he jerked upright and snatched them away.  He was horrified.

“What did I-?  How could you-?”  Bard moved to get away, but was prevented by a deceptively strong hand at his wrist.

“Bard.  Sit.”  Thranduil sighed.  “I am sorry.  I bear at least partial responsibility for this…situation.”

Bard blinked at the apology, and stilled.

“Dragon blood is known to have strange effects on those who come into contact with it.  I noticed nothing wrong with you when we first met, nor did I learn until much later that you and the bleeding dragon had gone into the lake together.  By then, we were separate, and you mentioned nothing suspicious in your messages.  I falsely assumed then that the water of the lake had been enough to dilute the dragon’s poison blood to no effect.  So I said no word in warning when I should have.”  Thranduil did not repeat his apology, but there was a note of regret in his voice.

“So you know what’s wrong with me?” Bard asked.

“Yes.  To some degr-“

“Is there a cure?”

Thranduil hated to dash Bard’s hope, but he could only offer the truth.  “Not that I know of.  Few enough survive an encounter with a dragon in the first place, let alone wound one and live.  Of those I know, none escaped for long with either their lives or their sanity.”  He did not allow Bard to contemplate that for long.  “You are already a different case entirely, having gone for months without any serious negative effects.  I now believe that my theory of dilution was, to some degree, correct – and that you _will_ be able to manage this.”

Bard’s mind wouldn’t settle.  There was the accusatory, _How could I not have noticed this happening?_  The worrisome, _What if I lose control like I so nearly did today?  What about my children?  My people?_  Beneath it all was the feel of Thranduil’s fingers gently stroking his wrist in soft, distracting circles.

Thranduil saw the frown marring Bard’s face, and knowing his grim nature, worried at the decision he might make.

“Please, Bard, let me be selfish in this.  I have lost my family – my wife is dead; my son, I drove away – lost so many of my kinsmen in the recent battle – lives that otherwise should not have ended.  You are my dearest friend; I would not like to see _your_ life cut short before its time.  And without trying.  I-”

Both of Thranduil’s hands were gently holding one of Bard’s as he made his plea, and Bard gazed intently at Thranduil as he spoke.  The Elvenking’s eyes darted hesitantly up to look into Bard’s and away, up and away again, as if afraid or shy but still unable not to look.

Bard felt Thranduil’s pulse thudding hard and fast in his fingertips, heard his heart beat – and he didn’t for a moment feel any hunger. There was no unquenchable thirst for Thranduil’s sweet blood.

But Bard saw something in Thranduil – a hope, a desire, a longing – that was matched in him.  A yearning for the other that had begun at the foot of the Lonely Mountain and only deepened with the exchange of letters and thoughts afterwards.

Bard scarcely allowed the hope within him to grow.  He certainly didn’t allow Thranduil to finish when for once he acted impulsively.  Bard’s free hand came up to rest on the Elvenking’s cheek, fingertips lightly brushing the hair at his ears.  Just a moment like that, and Bard kissed Thranduil.

It was tender and sweet, the soft press of lips a peaceful respite in the midst of their worries, and Bard knew then that he wanted many more moments like that with Thranduil.

He drew away slowly, not wanting it to end in case he’d read Thranduil incorrectly, in case they didn’t both want this after all.

But Thranduil’s eyes were bright and pleased as they gazed back at Bard, and Thranduil’s hands held him close.  And Bard was certain he’d made the right choice.

“I will try.  For you, for my children, I will try,” Bard said, and Thranduil knew that to be as good as a promise.

**Author's Note:**

> For @captainronnie: My deepest apologies for making you wait so long for your secret santa gift; I greatly appreciate your patience in waiting for it. As you may be able to tell from the slow start and the rushed ending, I had something much longer and plottier planned and mostly completed when my computer died and took that with it to its grave. And then there was kind of a perfect storm of a new job, busy holidays, sickness going around the family that I then caught that kept me from re-writing and editing... I felt so badly for making you wait so long for this that although I had started out trying to re-write the whole thing properly, I ended up just finishing it so you could finally have your gift. Still, I hope it brings you some enjoyment. And hey - even though it's much too late to be a proper holiday gift now, I did get it posted in time for Tolkien's birthday.


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